


can't face this life alone

by lilyofthevalley (naimeria)



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Idk there's probably gonna be Gay Panic, M/M, Sickfic, Timeline What Timeline, a lot of fluff basically, and arguing, john deacon deserves the world, john's sass, ot4 tag because idek what the pairings will be
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-17 23:23:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17569886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naimeria/pseuds/lilyofthevalley
Summary: the life and times of Queen: four boys and their dæmons.





	1. and 'neath her window I have stayed (1973)

**Author's Note:**

> To start: this is a very self-indulgent au. Mostly because I just really love dæmons, and incorporating them is always a bit of fun worldbuilding. 
> 
> Dæmons, for those that might not know, are a physical embodiment of one's soul. An animal that, during childhood can take any shape, your dæmon is a direct reflection of yourself, while also showing a counterbalance to your personailty. When one reaches adulthood, a dæmon settles into the form that best reflects their human's true nature. To touch someone else's dæmon is the highest taboo, unless the dæmon initiates this contact. This is a high honor, reserved for the closest of loved ones (dæmons are social with one another, however, and will come into contact with each other freely). 
> 
> They are not my creation, but were thought up by Phillip Pullman for his series, His Dark Materials. 
> 
> Queen are obviously not my creation either, and even though I've tagged the movie in this, it is not necessarily written with it in mind.
> 
> Dæmon list:  
> Freddie: Azara (public name Zee), a Swan  
> Brian: Fornax, a Eurasian Lynx  
> Roger: Filomena, a European Marten  
> John: Ariandel, a Hawfinch

Snow falls in fat wet flakes over the streets of London. It's not a pretty snow but heavy and blinding, the kind that threatens to freeze the air in your lungs. The streets are empty but for thick drifts piling up, and lights are dim in barren windows. No one with sense is out in this sort of weather. 

Roger Taylor stomps his boots on the sidewalk in a feeble attempt at trying to knock of ice from the tread, a litany of curses mumbled under his breath. Filomena is buried in his scarf, and even still she’s shivering against his skin. “Next time I decide food is more important than warmth, bite me.” 

Filly nods, then nips at him to bring the point home. 

By the time they make it home, Roger’s teeth are chattering and he can barely feel his legs. The heat’s not on of course - they can’t afford it - but being out of the wind and snowfall is a mercy. Not bothering with minor inconveniences like setting down the parcel in his arms, he drops to the floor and spends the next few minutes shivering against the wood, breathing on his fingers to restore some feeling. 

Webbed feet enter his narrowed field of vision, and he blinks blearily up at Azara, her inscrutable eyes blinking dolefully at him from her lovely white head. “You look half dead, Roger.” 

“Thanks,” he says, because at least that means he looks half alive. 

Well-manicured feet step up to join the swan’s, and Freddie’s voice rings too loud in the room. “She’s right, dear, you look downright sodden. Do get off the floor, no need for dramatics.”

When all he receives is a middle finger in reply, Freddie tuts and seems to take matters in his own hands, because a second later he’s being hoisted to his feet. Both stumble, but Freddie steadies them both, then wastes no time in peeling layer after damp layer from Roger’s shaking form. 

“Honestly, we could have waited until tomorrow, love. What were you able to afford, soup and tea?” Freddie tuts, rubbing his hands through Roger’s hair with just the right amount of invigorating force. 

Filly slinks out of the scarf at last, whiskers flared. “Thank you, Freddie.” 

“Of course, ‘Mena.”

Roger bends to let her down, where she hops over to Azara, wasting no time in snuggling up to the swan. “Bread, too,” Roger mumbles, “and some aspirin for Deaky.” 

Freddie’s lips are pursed, but his eyes are warm and sympathetic. “Let’s get you into something warm, then.”

By the time he’s warm enough, Roger’s wearing two of his own shirts, one of Freddie’s, and Brian’s baggiest blazer on top of it all. Slippers and sweats complete the rather unflattering look, but he couldn’t be assed to care, especially since his only company is currently tucked against his side, both his hands wrapped around Roger’s still chilled ones. Filly and Azara are on the back of the sofa, curled together and napping.

“John’s not going to like knowing you went out for him.” The words are quiet and Freddie’s breath sends goosebumps racing down his neck. 

“Yeah, well,” Roger shrugs. They all need the food, John just needs it the most. Almost on cue, a rough cough comes from the far room, and both men look over at it before lowering their voices further. “We didn’t have anything else.” 

Not as asleep as she looks, Azara shifts in his peripheral, feathers a lovely fan as she adjusts. Craning her long neck, she looks down at Filly first, then over to Roger. “We’ll have made due. We always have.” 

Her voice, pitched low and calming, always warms him, and Roger can’t help but give her a feeble smile. When a daemon speaks to you, you listen. “I know, but he sounds miserable. And I know Brian hasn’t eaten since yesterday morning.” Talk of food brings a growl to his own stomach. Luckily it's not audible, but Freddie’s elbow is pressed against his side and he undoubtedly feels it. The look Freddie gives him is overkill. 

“Okay, yeah, I’m hungry too, and so are you.” Leaning his head sideways, temple pressed to Freddie’s hair, he sighs. “We don’t have enough money for new strings, and my last pair of sticks broke three days ago. We’re kind of proper fucked, Fred.” 

Freddie fiddles with Roger’s fingers, flipping and curling them this way and that, his lips pursed. “‘Fred’, he says,” he mutters under his breath. “Brian’s rubbing off on you.”

Letting out a loud breath, he adds, “true enough. Still, one of you being sick is hard enough. Don’t want to make it two, love.” It’s accentuated by a tap on the nose. Roger wrinkles it, and ignores the urge to sneeze. 

Roger falls into a doze while Freddie shifts his attention from Roger’s hands to a pad of paper, doodling a lily then jotting down what looks like a mess of lyrics. He stops when Roger starts shivering again, who wakes with a start when Freddie shifts to grab them both a throw. It’s thin and stained, but it’s something, and when they both curl together beneath it, warmth starts to pool between them. Roger shifts until he’s practically laying on top of Freddie, who only smiles and wraps his arms around him. “There, get comfy love, that’s the ticket.” 

“Thanks, Freddie,” Roger mumbles, lips feather-light against the junction of his neck and shoulder. “Be lost without ya.” 

“That we can both agree on, my dear.”


	2. I loved the footsteps that she made (1973 part 2)

When John wakes, it’s to an empty room, blinds drawn and a mighty chill in the air. His chest aches something fierce, and he rubs it absently, smothering a cough in his pillow. There’s no sound in the flat, but there’s a stripe of light beneath his door, and he thinks long and hard about whether or not he’s well enough to move to the living room. Ariandel is a tuft of feathers, nested in a thatch of his hair on a corner of the pillow, motionless except for the swell of her breast as she breathes.

Warmth outweighs curiosity and the desire for tea, so John burrows back under the blankets and tries to fall back into a fitful sleep, chest tight and body aching. 

It almost works. 

Five minutes later finds him coughing himself awake, face pressed into the pillow to try and muffle his racket. All he really achieves is almost suffocating himself and giving his shoulders a workout they sorely don’t need, so eventually he gives in and hacks his lungs out to the open air. Frantic wingbeats can be heard around his head, and her weak little “John”s damn near break his heart, but he doesn’t have the breath to reassure her. 

His eyes are squinted shut and blurred with a thin layer of tears, so he doesn’t see the door open slowly, nor does he see the tall figure step into the room. He does, however, feel the cold palm against his forehead and about jumps out of his skin, hand pressed over his mouth in an attempt to not cough into his flatmate’s face. 

“Easy there, John. Sit up for me, it’ll help.” 

John tries, honest he does, but the train of coughs has now surpassed wet and has arrived at suffocating. Large hands take pity on him and squeeze under his shoulders, pushing him upright gently, and John lets his chin dip forward, whining pathetically in between hacking coughs. 

“Didn’t know it had gotten this bad. Just try and breathe, okay? When you catch your breath, drink this.” 

Brian, John’s fuzzy brain supplies, is now rubbing his chest with one cool hand, the other behind his back holding him upright. Maybe it’s the shock of it, or maybe he was really on the right track with sitting up, but soon the coughs fade out to a faint wheeze, and he’s left spent, sagging in Brian’s careful grip. Ari lands on his shoulder, wings drooped and feathers dull. Fornax, who’s at Brian’s side on the bed, sniffs in her direction, eyes sad. 

“There, easy does it. Cmon, it’s tea. Rog even got us some honey.” 

And damn if he doesn’t sound so gentle, tone light and soothing as he brings a cup to John’s hand. It’s a relief that he doesn’t bring it to his mouth; John’s dignity might not have survived. With a shaking hand, he sips at it slowly, the warmth a comfort in the chill. “Thanks,” he says, voice so rough he wrinkles his nose. 

Brian chuckles and says, “you’re welcome.”

They sit in an easy silence, Brian sitting on the edge of his bed as he drinks the tea slowly. He’d stopped rubbing John’s chest to give him the drink, but hasn’t moved the hand from behind his back. Their daemons, not characteristically chatty either, sit still in the silence. “Gave me a bit of a fright with all that ruckus,” Brian eventually says, and he looks it, eyebrows pulled together slightly and shoulders hunched. John mirrors the posture and looks away. 

“Sorry,” he says, “I hope I didn’t wake you.” 

“Nothing to be sorry for.” Fornax’s dulcet tones surprise him, her dark blue eyes black in the dim light of the room. John smiles at her, and Ari fluffs her feathers in a friendly display. 

“Freddie and Roger home?” 

At that, Brian actually grins. “Oh yes. Slowly trying to fuse together, I think. Squished on the sofa, bundled under a blanket and about ten layers. I think Fred’s in one of your sweaters, actually.” 

John smiles into the lip of the mug, and takes another sip, steam warming the tip of his nose. He sniffs, and shifts back so he’s resting against the wall. Obliging, Brian moves his hand and lets them both fall into his lap. 

Now that imminent danger has passed, it’s clear neither know what to do. Luckily, neither of them feel a particular need to fill the room with words, so the silence shifts from cautious to comfortable, and soon John’s drowsing against the wall. He jumps when Brian takes the mug from his lax grip, then mumbles his thanks. 

“Anytime. Before you go to sleep, think you can take some meds?” 

“We don’t have any,” he says, yawning into his hand. He coughs, and a little spike of fear shoots through him at the thought of it turning into more; thankfully, it doesn’t. 

“Actually,” Brian says, leaning to the side and grabbing something off of the side table, “we do.” It takes John an embarrassing amount of time to realize that he must have brought them in when he’d come in, and not that they’d been sitting there the whole time. The bottle sits innocuous in Brian’s hand, but it’s still a mystery, and John cant ignore it. 

“But we didn’t have any,” he says. The wit of Shakespeare. 

“It was on the counter. Roger knows how to buy more than just tea, honey, and cigarettes, apparently.” 

John’s first thought is none of them had had a smoke in weeks, because that’s a frivolity that they can’t afford. His second thought is they can’t really, afford the aspirin, either. His third is that of course he does, Roger’s not stupid.

“Roger’s not stupid,” is what he decides, of all that, needs to come out of his mouth. 

Brian blinks, ever patient. “I know he’s not.” 

“Okay,” he says. Then, “we don’t have the money.” 

Brian picks up the mug and hands it to him wordlessly, then dumps a few pills into his hand. “We do for this, John,” he says, the words quiet, spoken like a balm.His daemon shifts from sitting to laying, her head on Brian’s thigh. Her gaze flicks from his to Ari’s lazily, but her ears are up and attentive. 

Petulance threatens to overthrow gratitude, and for a moment, John thinks about refusing them. Logic wins out, though - they can’t exactly return them now that they’re open, anyway. So he takes both and lets the aspirin on his tongue, swallowing the tea once the bitter taste starts to get to him. 

A cough comes from the living room, high and throaty, and John frowns. Brian frowns, too, curls rolling over his shoulders as he turns to look through the open doorway. Neither can exactly see through the sofa, though. Another mystery. Two more follow it, followed by an uncomfortable groan. Ari beats her wings by his ear, displeased. 

“Well that’s not good,” he says, flat. Brian quirks a grin at him, but it’s dull. 

“No, it isn’t.” Brian exhales, the breath seeming to come from his toes. 

The worry at his brows makes John feel weirdly guilty. But before he can say anything, Ari says, “he’s about to apologize for being sick. You can ignore him, if you’d like.” 

John turns to her, mouth slightly ajar in offense, but she just preens one feather with the little energy she has. Fornax chuckles, low in her chest. 

“Get some rest,” Brian says, smiling at Ari then at John. It’s a little thing, but it’s also strangely bolstering, and John nods before he can think of arguing. “We’ll worry about them in the morning.” 

Shimmying down so he’s laying down fully again, John drags the blanket up all the way to his chin, turning away from Brian when he has to cough. The cool hand is back on his chest in a heartbeat, rubbing soothing circles again. “You’re fine,” Brian says, and John blinks up at him, unable to express how comforted he is. 

As he drifts off, John has the faintest impression of thin fingers threading through his sweat-dampened bangs. Sleep takes him, and he dreams of stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a terrible no good very bad day and this was a comfort piece. Not proofread, ignore anything glaring please.


End file.
